


Hell House

by athenaslibrary



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5131292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenaslibrary/pseuds/athenaslibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean travel to Texas to visit a Hell House, but they find more than they expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell House

A small town outside of Dallas, Texas

The rumbling purr of the black Chevrolet Impala’s engine announced its arrival long before it turned the corner from Route 284 onto the two-lane road that led to their destination. The road was blacktop, but poorly maintained, and Sam was grateful for the time that Dean had spent tuning up the shocks. He was pretty sure that otherwise his teeth would have been trying to vibrate their way out of his skull. The highway had been mostly empty, but they’d expected that. It was midday on a Tuesday, October 26th; the crowds for this attraction were nowhere near the height they’d reach in a week’s time. 

“A Hell House, Dean?” Sam asked, disbelief coloring his voice.

“Sure, Sammy. Why the hell not?” Dean replied. “We can compare notes. Let them know what they’ve got wrong. No omens on the radar for a couple of days, no mysterious deaths - why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves a little?”

Sam shook his head. Dean was right - they’d been checking in with Bobby every morning, but he kept telling them that nothing was going on. In the backwards way their life worked, the quiet seemed almost ominous. Most of the previous years, the time leading up to Halloween was rich with spooks letting their hair down, getting their fingers back into the bodies of the living. Not this time. No demon signs, no werewolves, no chupacabras (and this was the place for it - they’d already iced that pack down thisaway a couple years ago. The damn things loved the desert heat, and the misery that drove kids out to look at the empty irrigation canals). There wasn’t even a good rain of frogs for them to check out. It put his teeth on edge, made Sam feel like something bigger was brewing up. He hated that feeling, a deep worried soul-itch that nothing could scratch. When things were quiet, it too often meant that the demons had something up their sleeve.

He heaved a sigh. “I guess this wouldn’t have been my first thought on “fun” things we could do to blow off some steam. You know normal people go see a movie.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow as he looked over at the passenger seat. “Since when have we been ‘normal’, Sam? I know you tried back at Stanford, but let’s be real. That ship sailed a long time ago.”

“The new Star Wars is out?” 

“Lucas can blow me. I need to see some repentance from him for the Jar Jar fiasco before he gets any more of my hard-earned money.”

“Dean, you’re using a wallet you lifted off a grifter in Reno three weeks ago.”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, Sammy. We make our own way.”

Sam heaved another sigh and leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on the desolate Texas landscape. He could see a tract of houses off in the distance, McMansions with a patch of green lawn bright against the dusty brown of unirrigated land. The long grass at the edge of the road shimmered in the heat of the blacktop and the day was airless, oppressive heat pressing down on them. The dust their wheels kicked up hung in a still cloud for long minutes behind them before finally precipitating out of the air, waiting for the next traveler to rearrange it.

“So what exactly are we going to go see?” he asked finally.

“It’s a Hell House! The Bible thumpers out here love to put them on. Grab yourself a house and put up some sheeting and get the kids from the youth groups to dress up bloody and screaming. I hear there’s a bunch of scenes they act out - all the different ways you can send yourself down to hell.”

“You reckon making a deal with a crossroads demon to spring your brother’s soul is on that list?”

“I reckon it most surely is not. They tend to roll with the usual big ones - you know, adultery, gluttony, premarital sex, generalized failure to take Jesus into your heart as a true believer.”

“I think we’ve got all of those covered pretty well, then.”

“Yep. Plus the crossroads demon.”

“Plus that,” Sam agreed.

“Whattadya say we find ourselves a diner to hole up for a while? It’s only two, house won’t open up for the lord’s beloved children for another couple hours at least.”

“Sure,” Sam shrugged. “Scope out a motel too, maybe. Grab a nap.” 

“Sleep, Sammy! We’ll sleep when we’re dead.”

“Yeah, that keeps happening,” agreed Sam. He pulled out the flier that was the reason they’d come here at all, blood red paper and smeary copy-ink that stained his hands black. “Says it opens up at 6 every night leading up to Halloween.” A small square at the bottom of the page drew out a map of the town and how to get to the Hell House from there. “I think if we turn right at this junction up here, we’ll make it to the town.”

Dean spun the wheel lazily as they pulled up to the crossroads. A wry grin crossed his face as he looked over at Sam.

“No,” Sam said firmly. “We are not doing this again.”

“Maybe they’ll have pie,” Dean replied.

“And there’s the gluttony.”

—

Sue’s Old-Fashioned All-Night Diner had a huge red neon sign outside, flashing to tell the world that they could come in 24/7 for the best pie in the state. The glittery red vinyl of the booths was cracked but clean, and the linoleum table tops had been scrubbed mercilessly. A few cars populated the lot - mostly old Dodge trucks with some rust accumulating on the back bumper. Despite being only a few miles out of Dallas, this town was where the salt of the earth lived, and they didn’t care much for Priuses. In Texas, worrying about saving oil was like a fish worrying about running out of water. A bell dinged as Sam pushed the door open, and a cheery brunette waitress waved from the closest table where she was taking an order. “Y’all just go on and seat yourselves,” she said. “I’ll be right on over to help you.”

A booth a few seats down was open, next to the window, and Sam and Dean slid onto opposite sides. They were about in the middle of the room, meaning that both of them had clear lines of sight; Dean to the front door and Sam towards the restroom. This was how they usually tried to arrange themselves - make sure they could see clearly to both sides of the room, know your exits, have a takedown strategy for getting out of the place. Three of the other booths were occupied, with exactly the kind of people you’d expect to drive the trucks out there. Men in a hard middle age with dust creased in the cracks of their fingers, frayed overalls tight over their beer guts. Women whose best years had been in high school, a good 25 years earlier, hair still bleached brutally blonde and eyeshadow carefully applied, but makeup settling in the premature creases of their face. A pall of cigarette smoke hung over the place and everyone’s voice was raspy and harsh from the dryness, the dust, and the pack-a-day habit they’d probably all started in high school.

The waitress walked over jauntily, flipping over a new sheet on her order pad and smoothing her hair as she caught a glimpse of the two brothers. “Well ain’t you just a sight for sore eyes,” she said, in lieu of an introduction. “Where y’all blew in from? I’m Judy-Beth but my friends call me Judes, and I’ll be happy to take your order today.” Dean figured her to be in her early twenties - probably started working this job when she was still in high school and just never left afterwards. The years were running hard on her, like they seemed to be on everyone in this place, but she’d been a pretty girl when she was younger and she was still pretty now. He leaned back to look up at her, giving her the look he’d perfected back in high school. Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Jesus, Dean” and rolled his eyes quietly. The waitress giggled and ducked her head, somehow managing to look through her bangs at someone seated a good two feet beneath her. 

“Sure is nice to meet you, Judes,” Dean replied. “We just came in from Nevada. Could maybe my brother and I get a cup of coffee to start? And would you mind telling us about those pies you’ve got in the case up front?”

The waitress fluttered like a high schooler. “Two coffees,” she said as she wrote down their order, “and we’ve got cherry, apple, apple-cherry, peach, plum, summer berry, shoo-fly, pecan, pumpkin, lemon chiffon, lime chiffon, pineapple cream, key lime, raspberry, carrot, orange cream, lemon cream, grapefruit cream, ginger apple, ginger cherry, ginger apple-cherry, chess, and huckleberry. Or if you like savory pies, then we’ve got spinach pie, spinach and ham pie, cock-a-leekie pie, chicken pot, beef pot, lamb, shepherd’s pie, tomato and cheddar, and beef and beer. Oh, and Mississippi mud pie, which isn’t really a pie, but Louisiana is right over the border so we get a lot of folk in here who like it.”

Dean looked slightly taken aback by the onslaught of pie-based information. “I was not expecting that many pies,” he said. Privately he thought, Louisiana’s a good 200 miles away, but he wasn’t about to criticize her knowledge of local geography.

“Nobody expects this many pies, but when you’ve got the best pies in the state you’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“And of all those pies, which of them is your favorite?”

“Well,” she said, taking a deep breath, “If you’re a purist than I always recommend the apple or the cherry or the pumpkin, but the chiffon pies are more retro and are very popular. We’re the only diner in the whole entire western United States that serves up carrot pie, which is just like pumpkin pie but a little bit sweeter and carrotier. Personally I’m a big fan of the chess pie which is a Southern classic, although if we’re talking Southern classics than the Mississippi mud pie is also a favorite and our pecan is excellent and made with locally distilled bourbon. And we make all our own crusts every day. From scratch.”

Dean looked around the mostly empty diner. She saw the skepticism on his face - how many people would it take to eat all the pies she just reeled off on a regular basis? “Oh,” she said, “things pick up around here after about nine in the evening. Probably because we’re also the only diner in the state where you can get pie and beer, but we can only serve alcohol after six PM because of local blue laws. I can tell you which beers go best with each pie, if you come back a bit later tonight.”

She reached down and brushed her fingers against Dean’s wrist. Sam rolled his eyes again, but he was out of her line of sight and so Dean was the only one who saw. “I don’t get off work until ten,” she said, “so it sure would be nice to see you again.” Sam rolled his eyes harder.

“I do thank you for that. And I think I’ll go with a chicken pot pie and maybe a slice of that apple pie too,” Dean said.

“Chicken pot pie and apple pie, and for you?” Judy-Beth finally seemed to remember that the other side of the booth was also populated. Sam noticed a flicker of interest in her eyes but dismissed it. Dean was putting the moves on Judes and he’d learned a long time ago that standing in the way of Dean’s effortless charisma was a dead end.

“Coffee,” Sam said. “And a slice of spinach-ham.” 

“Two coffees, one chicken pot pie, one apple pie, and one spinach-ham,” Judes reeled off again. “Care for cream and sugar?”

“Yes please,” said Sam. “Both.”

“That be all for you boys?”

“For right now, I reckon that’ll see us clear,” Dean answered.

“Well all right then, you boys sit tight and I’ll be right back with that coffee for you.” She winked at Dean as she turned away, walking away from him so that he’d get a good view of her rear as she departed. Dean nodded appreciatively.

“Fine Southern hospitality right there,” he thoughtfully. “We should come down this way more often.”

“Sure,” Sam snarked back, “except that usually we’re here to put some body back in the ground or knock off a pack of vamps or something. You get a couple days of free time and it goes right to your head.”

“True that, Sammy,” Dean replied. “But I figure if I’m going to go see a Hell House tonight, I might as well make sure that I commit enough of the sins to really be clear on where I’m going to end up. Crossroads demon aside.”

Judes walked back over to them then, her heels clattering on the checkered black-and-white floor of the restaurant, coffeepot in one hand and a small pitcher of cream in the other. She flipped over the heavy-bottom porcelain mug in front of Dean before filling it with steaming hot coffee, then repeated the process for Sam. Sam noticed that her nails had been manicured a while ago, but she’d chipped the polish and chewed on her cuticles. The girl looked and talked confident, but she wasn’t as cool as she seemed. 

“Thanks,” Sam muttered. “Thank you kindly, Judes,” Dean said. He was really piling on the charm now, and she was eating it up, Sam thought. Damn. He’d been hunting with Dean for four years and his brother could still impress him with the amount of game he displayed. Especially when he wasn’t covered in one kind of gore or another, but hell, sometimes even when he was. Women got real friendly after you’d just rescued them from something that was really excited about the possibility of getting a close look at their intestines. He admitted to himself that this had occasionally worked in his favor as well, but he had nothing on Dean’s ability to charm half the world’s population into his bed. One-night stands were Dean’s specialty. What amazed Sam sometimes was how seldom Dean seemed to bump into the women again, and, when he did, how often they didn’t slap him but instead offered him another round. He’s probably really good in bed, Sam thought, and then shoved the idea aside as something he really didn’t want to consider more thoroughly. 

Judy-Beth strutted away again and Sam reached across the table for the sugar dispenser. “You are unbelievable,” he said to Dean. “Just totally unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “But also totally awesome.”

“So what’s the plan for today, anyway?”

“Well. For now, we eat pie, so this is clearly the best part of the day. Then we’ll head to the motel and drop our things, then head back over to the Hell House and see what kind of spooooky treats they have in store for us. Because it’s soooo spoooky talking about hell.”

Sam made a soft scoffing noise, curling his strong fingers around the warming porcelain of the coffee cup. “These people have no idea what they’re talking about,” he said.

“Oh, they never do, Sam. They have us to stand in between them and the things that go bump in the night. It’s a shitty life, but here we are. And sometimes,” Sam could hear Judes’s footsteps approaching from behind him, “sometimes there’s pie and pretty ladies to keep us company, so that’s ok.” Judes beamed as she approached their table again, sliding two pie plates in front of Dean and one in front of Sam and pulling two napkin-wrapped rolls of silverware out of the pocked of her terrifically retro gingham-checked apron. “There you boys go. I’ll just come right back to check on you in a few minutes, make sure you don’t need anything else, but if you do, just holler at me and I’ll be right on over.” She trotted away cheerily, heels clacking on the floor. Sam and Dean both grabbed a roll of silverware, unsticking the little paper tab around the paper napkin. Dean promptly stuck his fork in his chicken pot pie and began eating with enthusiasm. “Man,” he said, “we should find more diners like this. This is a hell of a chicken pot pie. I think this might be the first time that the best pie sign was actually true.”

“Dean,” Sam said slowly.

“What?” Dean muttered through a mouthful of peas and pie crust.

“Dean, look at this,” Sam said. Worry creased his brow as he slid the paper tab that held his silverware bundle together across the table. Dean paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, cheek bulging around the bite he’d just taken. He swallowed, hard, and looked at Sam.

“Huh,” Dean said. “Looks like we might have ourselves something to do besides checking out the house.”

On the scrap of paper, neatly written on the inside where they’d be hidden, were two small, neat, and desperate words: HELP ME.


End file.
